Free
by FlammaIgnis
Summary: Olgierd von Everec is free. Free to choose his destiny. Overwhelmed by all that he was incapable of feeling, he chooses to dedicate himself to a life on the Path in search of purpose and redemption. Perhaps, along the way, as the last Witcher of the School of the Wolf seeks peace, he may also find a semblance of happiness... (Olgierd von Everec x Triss Merigold)
1. Free

**Please note:**

If you haven't played The Witcher 3 and the "Hearts of Stone" DLC, this story contains a lots of spoilers.

 ****SPOILERS BELOW****

World state choices are as follows:

1\. Ciri will become empress.

2\. Nilfgaard has won the war, but restored some sovereignty to Temeria (yay good guy Vernon Roche!)

3\. Radovid is DEAD (bastard)

4\. Geralt and Yennefer are together

And I took some additional liberties...

1\. Triss stays in Novigrad, not Kovir.

2\. Vesemir isn't dead. I can't. It makes perfect sense in the game and is handled poignantly and touchingly. But I love the old man and I need him in my story. #Sorrynotsorry. **  
**

* * *

 **I. Free**

"I am the master of my fate:  
I am the captain of my soul."

-"Invictus", William Ernest Henley

* * *

The man peered in the small rectangular mirror poised before the wash basin. He ran his hands over his freshly shaven cheeks, his pale green eyes piercing and deep. He stared at his scars, the legacy of so many years of knowing that no matter what, he could not be destroyed even when facing defeat.

Hell knew he had tried early on.

But that ordeal had ended. Now, he saw, turning his chiseled face to each side, he would age. Now he was capable of being injured and taking ill. Someday he would die.

The scars along his head shone smoothly under the water and soap he'd lathered on to shave his red hair. Between him and the door stood the rest of his now finite life, he realized, suddenly struck by the enormity of the realization. He had already wasted too much time pondering what had happened, overwhelmed by all the rushing memories and feelings, to the point of numbness.

A heart of stone had allowed him to cut a violent swath through life without remorse. Even though he understood matters rationally, they did not pierce him as such things should. For so long he had watched everything about him unfurl with tepid interest, as if he were a spectator at a grand spectacle, one that was often pompous and over the top, ribald or maudlin, but regardless, always taunting him from an insurmountable distance.

After the curse on him had been lifted, and he walked down the mountain with the Witcher, Olgierd von Everec remained steadfast, even as he found himself halting, waves of pain and grief surging and rushing him.

"Take your time," the Witcher had told him patiently, dropping a heavy gloved hand on his shoulder.

"Odd you should say that," he retorted, leaning against the rocks. "Time is a luxury I can no longer dispose of."

When he'd offered the Witcher his sword, he'd done so fully cognizant that it was only a token of appreciation for the monumental deed he'd done. He'd handed his sword over with words of gratitude, his tongue accustomed to uttering the right, proper words. This time, however, the words echoed from within him as if plucked from his very entrails, his sinews, a pained and melancholy landscape he could scarce recognize, wild and unruly. He had had to command himself to keep his hand from shaking.

"What will you do?" the Witcher had asked him on that strange, fateful day.

" I don't know," he admitted.

He'd followed that up with a small speech about seizing his fate, refusing to return to the life he'd had before. But while he knew clearly what he did not wish to do, he still had no idea what he would do with his life.

* * *

He owed his band an explanation. At least a farewell. He returned to Oxenfurt and met with Čedomir, his handpicked Lieutenant, a trusted, loyal, reliable soldier whose flesh featured almost as many scars as his. Čedomir was a man whose grey hair once had been lush and dark when he first joined him and Vlodimir as part of the Redanian Free Company—the Wild Ones. He'd left the man in charge of the unruly band and had no intention of relieving him of his post.

"I am sure you will be in great demand," Olgierd had assured him. "With Radovid deposed, you know there are scores of nobles quaking in their boots. They'll be eager for some 'protection' until order is restored," he explained.

"And where will you be going?" Čedomir asked, trying his darnedest to disguise his disappointment.

"I have not decided yet."

"The von Everec estate?" the man wondered hopefully.

Olgierd's face clouded.

"Never."

"And your restored fortune?" Čedomir insisted. "You ought to enjoy it—set up grand headquarters…Perhaps a castle! No! An impenetrable fortress!" he continued excitedly.

Olgierd grinned before remembering something. He reached into his satchel and tugged out a scroll.

"You just reminded me," he stated, handing the scroll over to the man. He took the parchment warily, unfurling over the table in the secluded corner of the tavern they were meeting at. As his eyes perused the document, they widened.

"Holy Melitele," the man uttered.

"See to it that everyone gets their fair share…And make sure the whoresons don't waste it all on drink or Gwent."

"This is a fortune," Čedomir noted.

"Should be enough to ensure each one of you has somewhere to call your own and upon which to drop dead." He winked, eager to conclude their meeting. They raised and clanked their tankards, Čedomir reviving somewhat.

"It'll be good to finally have a proper home," Čedomir admitted.

"You mean other than the whorehouse?" Olgierd teased.

The men chuckled before sipping their ales. Olgierd closed his eyes, the taste of bitter hops refreshing on his tongue. It was standard tavern swill —what he expected to find in a cheap tavern in Oxenfurt where one could pay the barkeep not to notice details or remember names—and at that moment he was terribly glad he was enjoying it, that his experience of it was heavily influenced by his affection for Čedomir, by the twinge of irrevocability that had settled over him as he gradually extricated himself from that mercenary existence and the people who had fought alongside him unquestioningly.

"Don't think me ungrateful, but may I ask something?"

Olgierd leaned back, expectantly. Čedomir was the only one in the Company who knew of his curse, his disastrous deal with O'Dimm.

"With this money you could seek out and hire powerful enchantresses, you could try to see if what has been done could be undone."

Olgierd crossed his arms, his face stern.

"It _has_ been undone," he muttered.

"No. That's not what I meant," Čedomir continued more conspiratorially. Both men broke away from each other as a tavern maid brought them fresh tankards. He waited until the woman had stepped back behind the bar to lean over the table once again. "All those years we spent searching and learning about…" his voice dropped. "There are other powerful beings out there. What is stopping you from spending your gold on an expedition to find a djinn or a—"

"I learned my lesson: I am done making deals with beings on another plane," Olgierd stated plainly. "What would you have me ask for?"

"You could wish for your Lady to be restored to you."

"My wanting her by my side was what brought us all misfortune in the first place. How could I summon her from whatever peace she has finally reached? And for what purpose? And, more sinisterly: in what state?"

"But the Witcher himself told you that the Lady still loved you," Čedomir persisted.

"To love and to remain together are two different matters," Olgierd told him. "And I think it is precisely because I can now remember how much I loved her as well that I could never wish for such a thing. Not after all I've done to her. She loved the Olgierd she knew once, the Olgierd she always hoped I could return to being. Not this," he said contemptuously. "Not even with the curse lifted. It's too late. I've wrought too much damage. Let her be—she deserves to rest in peace. Away from me. Away from the memories."

"You could word it so that you returned to the past, to a time before these things came to pass," Čedomir proposed.

At that point, Olgierd felt the conversation was purely academic.

"Both of us as innocent as we were before all of this came to transpire?…Absolutely not," Olgierd argued. "Because in me there would always be that inclination to do it all over again, that weakness—a vulnerability. Make no mistake: I'd be ripe to be swindled by the Master of Mirrors again," Olgierd concluded, avoiding mention of the being's name lest it seem like some sort of summons, perhaps even an invitation. "And worse: I would be none the wiser. Although the man I was once could claim to be much happier than I, I would not, knowing what I know now, wish to be in his shoes again."

"And if you retained your memories?" Čedomir countered.

Olgierd smirked.

"I'd be very alone, now, wouldn't I? Having this secret within, the knowledge that I once destroyed Iris through my indifference? The truth is I did not deserve her. Once I set events into motion, I was no longer worthy of her. Do you know what is ironic?" he asked.

Čedomir sighed, resting his cheek over his fist. His eyes swam from the drink.

"That while I blamed the Borsodis for our downfall, I never blamed myself at first for how I dealt with that downfall. Yes, they were underhanded and greedy. I have no sympathy for the end of their lineage. But there I was, spitting at their lording power over us…And I did the same thing. I interfered with fate, imposing a new destiny with disastrous results. I often wonder what would have happened if only I had shown patience, some restraint…some faith," he murmured darkly. "I was so determined to control things that I only saw one way, one possibility—and I grasped at that opportunity to our detriment. I can now think of a thousand choices, all of them more preferable, even the one in which Iris marries the Ofieri and decides she does love him after all. Arrogance." He nodded to the mesmerized man. "Pride. But worst of all: desperation."

He left soon afterwards, embracing his old friend for the last time, chased by a pain that had grown so intense that it roared within him.

* * *

A business trip to Tretogor was in order, as well. There was the matter of the von Everec estate. He needed to ensure that no one would try to inhabit it. He couldn't bear to sell it—not yet, at least—but he would have the structure razed to the ground.

"T'is really best if you sell it," the solicitor he'd retained recommended. "You will still be held accountable for taxes."

"The house should be destroyed," he insisted emphatically.

"What of any belongings inside?" the man forged ahead dutifully despite disagreeing with the odd request.

"I doubt there is much of value left there… But any paintings," he recalled, his expression softening, "any surviving paintings in good condition should be placed in a vault for safekeeping."

"Very well," the man summed up in his nasal voice. "Structure destroyed…Garden and grounds preserved. Any objets d'art stored in a vault in your name. Yearly taxes and other fees will come out of an account in…"he paused to browse through the parchment he was drafting. "Oxenfurt."

"Correct," Olgierd acknowledged. His head ached. He was hyper attentive to the solicitor's wording, trying to anticipate any loopholes that would exempt the man from following through on his directives and taking advantage of him. Such attentiveness had become a tiresome habit of his.

"The work crew will come from Novigrad, but will hire local hands to complete the task and dispose of debris…You said a Witcher has ensured the site is free of monsters?"

"Yes," he declared clearly. "But the crew should definitely have an armed escort. I have no idea if any brigands are squatting there…or if anything else has managed to settle within the walls."

"The neighboring town may not like to have such a large area left vacant."

"Farther north there was a Temple to Melitele," Olgierd interrupted. "If they are still there, offer them the land for rent. They may tend to the gardens, establish some dwellings there, tend to pilgrims and—"

"Rent the land…"The solicitor rubbed his chin interestedly. "That's definitely a more viable option. But if you expect to make a profit renting it out to a Temple —"

"To the Temple," Olgierd insisted.

The man let out a discreet huff filled with contained exasperation.

"Very well. And for how much would you be renting the land to the Temple?"

Olgierd leaned over the table, tapping his finger on the parchment.

"Write down: one copper," he completed, with a sly grin.

The solicitor peered at him with undisguised disapproval and finally removed his spectacles to pinch the bridge of his nose tiredly.


	2. Oxenfurt

**2: Oxenfurt**

"When I like people immensely I never tell their names to anyone. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown to love secrecy."  
― Oscar Wilde, _The Picture of Dorian Gray_

* * *

Nobody knew anything. Olgierd roamed Oxenfurt aimlessly, seeking leads that never amounted to much more than speculation. He waited outside lecture halls in the Academy, seeking revered scholars. He knocked on many a door in quiet courtyards with well-manicured gardens and genteel waiting rooms. He dragged his finger over the faded gilded writing on the spines of ancient tomes.

Nothing.

"Witchers? Do they hail from anywhere? I thought they were itinerant."

"I haven't the faintest idea…What an odd request!"

"I seem to recall something…I read it in a book somewhere…Let's see…It was somewhere that started with a 'K." Kovir?...No, no…Wait! Maybe Kaedwen? Or was it Kerack? Ah, my apologies: I don't remember!"

"If you ask me, Witchers all belong in hell, along with the sorceresses they consort with!" a man he'd consulted with spat and then smiled benevolently. "May the Undying Flame preserve ye."

It was frustrating and he was beginning to lose hope that he would ever learn which direction to head towards to find the elusive Witchers.

 _Really. I ought to have fielded fewer questions and asked a few of my own when I had the opportunity. Fool_ , he chastised himself. All those conversations with Geralt and he had barely asked the man anything about himself or Witchers.

He was beginning to lose hope. He even entertained a new idea: perhaps a smaller band. They would offer to do the same tasks as Witchers. Fight monsters and other creatures, demand payment only—

 _No more_ , he decided, wandering down one of the streets that overlooked the Pontar. He'd be running a charity, not a mercenary band. No soldier in his right mind would join such an endeavor. Besides, it was a costly endeavor. There were practical considerations, expenses. He no longer wished to be at the helm of such an undertaking. He couldn't be bothered.

 _I don't have the time_ , he noted.

His was a peculiar obsession. Once he'd settled upon it, it steered his actions and thoughts. And yet, he had no idea if it was feasible, if it was viable, and if it would even be entertained.

 _All the more reason I need to find this fabled Witchers' fortress_ , he decided, shooing away his doubts. Rumors always had origins in reality. Sometimes it was a greatly conflated reality, exaggerated or complicated…but containing a truthful core nonetheless.

The city had failed him before, he remembered dourly. He'd perused so many tomes, consulted so many academics and scholars…and none of them had been able to aid him. Understandablyso, however: O'Dimm was no run-of-the-mill aberration. He thought he'd give the city another chance to redeem itself in his eyes.

So far it hadn't.

He turned around, deciding to return to the Academy. His clear eyes took in the pointed roofs of the lively city as the first throngs of students began to flood the streets at the end of the day. He knew that city well. He'd loved its bohemian ways as a young man. Later on, he turned to it as a supplicant when he sought ways to break O'Dimm's hold on him, consulting its venerable libraries, taking comfort in the knowledge that Oxenfurt was the repository of all the great wisdom and scholarship of the Northern Realms. The common, audacious saying about the Academy was that "if you cannot find it in a book in Oxenfurt's libraries, then it didn't happen… or it doesn't exist."

* * *

"We are about to close," a young man in traditional librarian robes informed him as he pored over the pages of yet another book. He'd learned plenty about Alghouls, Mucknixers, and Rotfiends, but precious little about Witchers. He peered at the librarian with mild irritation. A few solitary figures remained in the desolate library, the gleam of candles reflecting off the latticed windows.

"I'll pay you a rich sum if you let me stay past closing time," Olgierd entreated the man.

The man hesitated.

"I cannot do it. If I do such a thing, I assure you my superiors will not be pleased."

"I will make it worth your while: I suggest you reconsider."

A group of young men doffing feathered caps and velvety attire waved and jeered from one of the doorways.

"Meet us at the The Quill and Nib," one of them called out jovially, a small pile of books tucked under his arm. In the near distance, a deep sounding bell began to toll.

"The library is closing," he announced over his shoulder in a definitive tone, ignoring Olgierd.

 _To be young and restless. Not even the certainty of coin jingling in his pocket could quell the excitement of unknown adventure_ , Olgierd thought, understanding that his offer held none of the allure a drunken evening with good mates did.

As he stepped into the street, the evening already late and holding no promise he could glimpse, he sensed he was being watched with great interest. Years of having to be aware of his surroundings took over and he began to chart a course down the meandering streets of the city deliberately. He strolled into a square calmly, pausing to browse through the wares hawked by the many vendors. Out of the corner of his eyes he noticed a silent, cloaked figure following him only a few steps behind. Both men moved unhurriedly, negotiating the modest crowds with patience and resignation. A tavern on the square had opened its large wooden doors wide; a warm, stuffy odor wafted from inside while the lively jaunt of a jig resonated through the square. Olgierd feigned interest, slowing his step, sensing that his stalker slowed down as well. He did not turn his head, but noticed a narrow alley between the back of the tavern and a large, austere building.

 _It'll do._

He clapped along with the other patrons as the music stopped and made as if to resume his exploration of the city by quickly turning the corner. His pursuer appeared to reawaken and rushed after him…Crashing right into the former ataman, who stood in wait. He raised his hands, gripping the man by the collar, his hands balling into large fists. He rammed the man against the back wall of the tavern.

"Wait, wait!" the man begged.

Olgierd listened impassively while appraising the man. Small. Pale. A scruffy face with pudgy cheeks and thin lips. Hardly the demeanor of some cunning assassin or cutpurse.

"Waiting takes time," Olgierd murmured pointedly. "Why are you following me?"

"Ah, I think…That is, I might, I'm not certain, but perhaps—"

"Out. With. It." Olgierd said, evincing his growing irritation by pushing him once more against the wall.

"I know the solution to your problem," the man blurted out.

"I'm listening," Olgierd encouraged him, not fully convinced yet.

"There's a woman," he began.

Olgierd snorted and then cracked a definitively unfriendly grin.

"Do you take me for one of these whelps whose delusions of physical prowess grow in proportion to the tankards of ale they can pound? This has to be a new low, you whoreson, accosting me to pander—"

"I'm not a panderer!" The man pleaded, terrified of the surge of indignation in the ataman's angry eyes. "You misunderstand!"

"Of course not," He stated sarcastically. He was well dressed—wearing a fine brocaded coat and a leather belt wrapped over and around a wide sash. He donned his livery collar, a heavy gold chain with ruby ovals set in gold, and a gold cuff and earring. Also his many rings adorned his fingers, all of them set with vivid gemstones. Of all the things he willingly gave up and turned his back on, his fine clothes and jewelry were not among them. _I probably look like a desirable customer_ , he gathered _. And a quite gullible one, too, parading about in all this finery without a sword_ , he remembered. _Years of immortality make one somewhat careless_ … "So, in good faith, to prove to me you aren't insinuating I am stupid, explain yourself in exactly _three words_." He offered the man a savage grin. "I assure you I can count that high."

The man blinked agitatedly, feverishly collecting his thoughts.

"Yes…"

"And that's ONE!" Olgierd tightened his grip.

The man winced.

"Wi-Witcher. Fortress." The man stuttered.

He released him with a hiss.

"You best not be wasting my time."

The man took a deep breath, relieved not to be pressed up against a wall any further.

"Come," Olgierd indicated, with a tilt of his head. Let us talk."

"My study is just a few streets down from the square," the man offered.

Olgierd smirked. He had no intention of going to the man's study.

"Tell me: what's your name?"

"Pe-Petia," the man managed to state.

"Petia?..."

"Liman!" he exhaled, still shaken.

"Very well, Petia Liman. Let me buy you a drink," he offered more amiably, delighting in the expression of sheer terror in the man's doughy face.

* * *

The Hopping Harpy was exactly what Olgierd had been looking for: loud, rowdy, crowded, and hot. Harried but sassy barmaids pushed past the crowds as the barkeep scowled, plunking down tankards and bottles on the bar top. The chaos soothed him; it drowned out his own. The wine was Redanian. It was called "Golem's Blood" and poured out somewhat thickly from the olive green jug.

"Golem's Blood!" Petia exclaimed in a high-pitched voice. "Ha! Now that is something, since golems can't bleed and—"

"To your health," Olgierd interrupted, placing the cup down heavily before the squirming man.

"To a long life," the man muttered obligingly, lifting the cup to his lips as if resigned to ingest poison.

Olgierd took the man's words in, squinting at him suspiciously.

"So why follow me all this time? Why didn't you simply approach me when we were unceremoniously ejected from the library."

Petia licked his lips, grimacing slightly.

"I overheard you talking to the Head Librarian…I needed to think…but I didn't want to lose sight of you."

"Think about what?" he asked, swishing the drink around his cup.

"This is all a very delicate matter, you see."

He poured Petia another cup, much to the man's chagrin.

* * *

"I, myself, do not know where the Witchers' fortress is. I do know it is somewhere in Kaedwen," he reported after a couple rounds of Golem's Blood.

Olgierd rested his chin in his hand as he contemplated the squirrely man.

"Obviously, you're going to tell me something worthwhile, am I right? You aren't daft enough to go through all of this to tell me something as grotesquely idiotic as 'somewhere in Kaedwen,'" he retorted, peeved. "That would be like my saying 'they will have to fish you out of somewhere in the Pontar,'" he threatened.

He had no intention of harming him, but he was not one bit amused at that little spectacle he was being forced to endure.

"Yes. I do have information you will find valuable…But first…Before I disclose what I know…What are your intentions? Do you bear the Witchers any grudges?"

At the man's sudden defiance, Olgierd smiled slightly. _Ah, he has a backbone after all_.

"What is it to you?"

"I will not put my jewel in harm's way," the man stated boldly, seized by some inner heroism.

He narrowed his eyes and appeared to be pondering the man's sudden bravado.

"I would die before I told you anything!" he declared hotly, thrusting his glass in his direction, spilling the wine over himself.

Olgierd's stern gaze softened and he leaned back in his chair.

"I bear the Witchers no grudges. Quite the opposite, in fact. I owe a certain Witcher an enormous debt of gratitude. Rest assured: I seek them in peace," he assuaged Petia. He appeared to be taking this bit of information in with great interest.

"This Witcher…It wouldn't happen to be Geralt of Rivia, would it?"

At that moment, he felt his pulse quicken.

"The very one." He contemplated the man with renewed urgency. "Do you know him?"

"Who doesn't? He's the most celebrated Witcher in these parts. The Butcher of Blaviken. Do you happen to know how he acquired that nickname, by the way?" the man offered professorially.

"Don't tell me: I'll ask him myself. Where can I find him?"

Petia basked in his momentary glory, tickled he had Olgierd's full attention.

"Alas," he chuckled, "I have not seen the Witcher myself. I know he stopped by our fair city often in the recent past. Although, there haven't been any recent sightings of him reported lately."

He hoped his silence would prompt Petia to continue.

"Well?" he finally asked. "How can you help me?" Olgierd asked, genuinely intrigued.

"I know someone who knows the Witcher well. I believe she will be able to aid you in your endeavor."

"Who?" He leaned forward, his voice hushed.

Petia pressed his lips together nervously.

"I don't know if I should tell you."

"Is she your jewel?" Olgierd asked more gently. Petia's eyes watered.

 _Oh, blazes._ He scratched his chin impatiently.

"She is the most miraculous lady," Petia announced passionately. "And I will not see any harm done unto her," he declared.

"Very good. A noble sentiment," he concurred.

"You will treat her with respect and reverence."

 _What is this? Am I going to go meet Melitele Herself?_ What wretched infatuation was the man spewing forth instead of telling him what he needed already?

"I will even remove my shoes in her presence," Olgierd acquiesced, not without some mockery.

"If she refuses to tell you what you wish to know, you must swear not to bother her further."

"That would be boorish," he agreed, confident, however, that he would manage to be persuasive.

"And you must deliver her a message, as well. From me."

 _And perhaps a fruit basket, too? Why not?_ Olgierd held his tongue.

"I am listening," he encouraged Petia.

"Tell her this: Toti is well. His wounds healed, thanks, in no small part, to her kind ministrations."

"Toti," Olgierd repeated, imagining all kinds of comical scenarios: a feisty pet weasel, an august potted plant…His head was beginning to ache.

"He is currently in Lan Exeter. He is doing well. He says the Eternal Fire fanatics do not hold as much sway there as they did here."

"And to whom will I be relaying this information?" he tried.

"Then you must tell her Petia sends his deepest and sincerest regards," he continued, oblivious. "And gratitude," he added adamantly. "Don't forget the gratitude."

"I may have trouble remembering all this…Care to tell me something more? Perhaps a brief summary of what this is all about?"

"My brother Toti and I had to flee Oxenfurt when King Radovid established headquarters here. We traveled to Novigrad, but found the city inhospitable as well."

Olgierd nodded.

"So I would be correct in assuming your brother is a mage?"

"Aye. A very competent one, as well."

"Ah," Olgierd acknowledged. "I see."

As gold was gold and stone was stone, he had been fairly indifferent regarding who paid him. The Wild Ones were often hired to fight alongside the Redanian army during the beginning of some of the hostilities with Nilfgaard. He had not found Radovid to be a temperate, measured ruler, though. His all out war against magic had irked him. Each staking or public burning of mages and enchantresses made him consider that any knowledge he needed to defeat O'Dimm was possibly being lost forever among the combined skills and expertise of all the condemned. All the magic, all the wisdom: gone so callously, indiscriminately.

Radovid had impugned all the indignities he had suffered under the rule of one enchantress on all their ilk. It was brash, foolish, and ultimately spelled his demise. A good king had to be shrewd, calculating.

 _Cold_ , he thought, suddenly catching himself. _Dispassionate_. _It was why I was so successful leading my company and conducting businesses. A heart and a conscience are inconvenient in some instances._

"This good lady risked her own life to see that my brother's was saved. She shepherded all the mages she could from Novigrad right before what would have undoubtedly been a massacre," Petia confided. "And the Witcher Geralt aided her in this endeavor."

Olgierd's eyes remained fixed upon him.

"My family and I will be forever grateful to her," he admitted.

"Then you understand how I feel. I only wish to begin repaying my debt of gratitude. It is the one thing I feel will right many of the wrongs I've perpetrated in my life," he revealed, earnestly for once.

Petia nodded again, the wine finally having a mellowing effect on him.

"Funny how those our society scorns are often the ones who come to our aid." Petia tipped the jug only to find a miserly trickle dribbling out.

"You know the saying," Olgierd caressed the beard covering his chin. "The world is only as good as the people in it."

Petia grinned, enjoying the old adage.

"It is funny, isn't it? Such sayings are the province of childhood, yet they ring the truest. I think, in fact, that particular saying was first circled in the court of Queen—"

"The lady, Petia. Who is she? Where can I find her? Please," he implored, straining at his own impatience.

The man heaved a heavy sigh.

"Promise me…"

"I promise you. I will not hurt your jewel."

"Tell her one more thing from me?" he asked, now clearly slurring.

"Anything."

"My tender feelings never subsided. I am still her most devoted," he uttered. "She'll know," he said wistfully. "I always reminded her of it. 'You must always seize the opportunity to tell those you love how you feel lest you miss an opportunity to do so and then your beloved or yourself are parted and such an occurrence leads to bitter regret—"

"Yes, yes, the good Prophet Lebioda." He struggled not to roll his eyes at the convoluted platitude. "You have my word that I will deliver yours," he bowed his head slightly in a gracious gesture.

"The one you seek. She is not here, in Oxenfurt."

"Then where?" he asked, barely able to disguise his eagerness.

"Novigrad."

"Novigrad…All right. But…Novigrad is large. Don't tell me she is 'somewhere in Novigrad' or I—"

"Her name is Triss. Triss Merigold," the man confessed. "And I can tell you where to find her."


	3. Rosemary and Time

**Chapter 3: Rosemary and Time**

"If there is one thing in this world that I was raised and trained to know, it is that there is only so much you may ask of the gods. Victory in battle is their lightest gift; a quiet heart is your own concern."

 _-The Innkeeper's Song_ , Peter S. Beagle

* * *

Novigrad.

It was a cold fall, Olgierd thought, looking at clumps of lingering frost sprinkled over the ground on a quiet street. It was early and the sun, pale and ineffectual that time of the year in the North, cast a light golden glow over the bustling streets.

 _The Rosemary and Thyme_ , he mused. _Ask the owner for Merigold's whereabouts_. That's what Petia had instructed him to do.

"Triss is elusive. I have no idea where she resides—only that any letters sent to her should be sent in care of the Rosemary and Thyme…"

He had entered through the Oxenfurt Gate, over one of the northernmost bridges into the city, and asked two city guards on patrol if they could direct him.

"Rosemary and Thyme," one of the guards rubbed his cheek, his eyes roaming over the street pensively. "Sounds familiar, doesn't it?" he asked his partner.

"I used to patrol the southern side and I think there was a place that went by that name…But I don't think it's there anymore…" the partner mused. "Anyhow, if it is a good tavern you are looking for, why not just go to the Golden Sturgeon? It's Harborside, not too far from here."

"I like the Golden Sturgeon meself," the guard concurred, nodding.

Olgierd arched an eyebrow. One of the men eyed his elegant wine and gold threaded brocaded robe.

"The Kingfisher might be more to your liking though. That's Hierarch Square—just follow the main roads towards the center of the city."

"Or the Passiflora…"the other man chuckled. "You know we all pooled some coin for Tristam's tenth anniversary on the guard to send him there for the night—" he began to his partner conspiratorially. "He said it was the best evening of his life."

"I can imagine."

"Said his wench even let him drink champagne out of her slipper."

"Blech! The old sod would waste his time acting like a ponce, wouldn't he? Raise some coin to send me and I'll have better stories to tell everyone."

Both men chortled briefly, oblivious to him.

"Anyway. Yeah. We don't know where it is," one of the soldiers replied gruffly. They unceremoniously hoisted up their polearms and resumed their patrol down the street.

Olgierd tossed his head back and inhaled deeply.

* * *

It was mid morning when he reached the southern half of the city and he found himself cursing under his breath at the crowds pushing past him along the narrow streets. He was beginning to suspect Petia had conjured up a tall tale to get him off his back.

"The Rosemary and Thyme?" he asked a woman sweeping her stoop.

She shook her head, warily.

"The Rosemary and Thyme?" he asked a group of longshoremen waiting for a ship to dock.

"Never heard of it."

"Wasn't it one of Whoreson's brothels?"

"Pssh!" one of the tattooed men spat.

"I think you're right!"

Olgierd frowned. _Petia, if you've sent me on a wild goose chase, no amount of sniveling will save your sorry arse._

"Is it still? I thought the place was shut down after the old man died," another man wondered.

"Well, it might as well have, because I've never been!" a larger, broad shouldered man declared.

"It used to be located not far from the Gate of the Hierarch," one of them stood up and pointed towards a sloping road leading downwards. "Good luck!"

* * *

In a small square, red velvety curtains billowed in the breeze over the balustrade of a half-timbered building. Over the doorway, an enameled red sign featuring the drawing of a woman playing a lute sat behind a name arching overhead: "The Chameleon."

 _Blazes_ , Olgiered noted with disappointment. Finding a Triss Merigold in a city of thousands would be akin to finding the proverbial needle in the haystack. He walked up to the door, stepping over a slumbering drunkard leaning against the entrance wall.

 _Locked._ He looked up at the sign again. Such establishments normally didn't open until later in the day.

He decided he couldn't wait. He raised his heavy fist and pounded on the wooden door. He pounded several times, each time with increased might, until the entire door frame rattled.

To his surprise, he heard the lock turn and the door creaked open. He was face to face with a bleary eyed dark haired man sporting a slight anchor beard in a ruffled nightshirt and a pink satin muffin hat with a pert little feather sticking up.

"Will you kindly stop abusing this door?" he yawned sleepily.

"I'm looking for the Rosemary and Thyme. Can you tell me how to find it?" Olgierd requested.

"Are you a bill collector?" the man asked, squinting suspiciously at him. Past the man's shoulder he could see a large dark paneled room with latticed windows, adorned with long swatches of rich red velvet curtains.

"No," he quickly replied.

The man's face relaxed into a charming grin.

"Lovely!" he quipped, with evident relief. "Good-bye!" he announced, starting to shut the door.

Olgierd thrust his foot quickly between the shutting door and the jamb.

"You asked me a question and I replied; I believe I am due the same courtesy."

"No, I cannot tell you where to find it," he sighed.

Olgierd's expression clouded as a surge of annoyance rose within him.

"Because, my dear sir: you have found it!" He swiped his arm across the air indicating the dim room. "It is no longer 'The Rosemary and Thyme', you see. It is currently under new management and is now 'The Chameleon.' It is the finest cabaret in Novigrad!"

"The only cabaret, that is. Less pretentious places are content with calling themselves taverns with musical entertainment," stated a low voice in a thick burr from a shifting heap of discarded red curtains on a corner settee.

"I don't expect you to appreciate my visionary endeavors," the feathered muffin-capped fellow retorted with a hint of annoyance.

"May I come in?" Olgierd asked.

The man clucked his tongue.

"What time is it?"

"Almost noon."

"Almost noon?"

"Aye."

"Far too early," he lamented.

A head popped out from beneath the pile of red curtains. A dwarf peered out at him, disoriented, rubbing his thick brown beard.

"Curses on you for letting me fall asleep down 'ere again, Dandelion. I don't remember anything after the madrigal-singing jugglers in bear costumes."

"This would be our head of security, Zoltan," the man called Dandelion pointed out tartly. "Coin very well spent!" he jabbed.

"You get what you pay for!" The dwarf shrugged his shoulders and huddled back into the settee.

Dandelion sniffed indignantly and stepped aside to allow Olgierd into the room.

"How can I be of help?"

"I am trying to find someone and was told you would be able to assist me."

"Ah! You were rightly referred! I just might. I am very well-informed."

"I am looking for a woman—"

Dandelion placed his hand on Olgierd's shoulder, as if to interrupt him.

"My good man, perhaps I haven't made myself clear. This is no longer 'The Rosemary and Thyme.' We are not that kind of establishment. Here we only promote the arts: music, poetry, dance—"

"Singing jugglers in bear costumes," the dwarf added sarcastically.

"We aren't prudish, however, and I can gladly refer you to Crippled Kate's," Dandelion quickly added. "I believe they have their 'Tart Special' tonight."

Zoltan snorted amusedly. " _Tart_ Special?"

"Clever, don't you agree? It was my idea," he called out, evidently pleased. " Tomorrow is 'Venial Venison'—have your 'dear' for supper."

The dwarf cackled merrily and even Olgierd found the edge of his lips curling into a faint grin.

"We have a lovely agreement of reciprocity: we send each other patrons…After all, 'man can live of art and love alone!'" he quoted enthusiastically.

"Indeed," Olgierd replied brusquely. "But that's not what I was referring to. I am looking for a woman of your acquaintance—"

"Pfff! We could be 'ere all day," Zoltan chuckled, sitting up in the settee. Dandelion cast him an annoyed grimace.

"Who is it you seek?"

"I am seeking Triss Merigold."

He realized he had struck a chord when he noticed both men's expressions grow serious. They exchanged wary glanced before Dandelion turned his blue eyes back to him. He stood up straighter and cleared his throat.

"And, pray tell, who would you be, exactly?"

Olgierd crossed his arms over his chest and looked Dandelion in the eye.

"Olgierd von Everec."

At this revelation, Dandelion's eyes widened.

"Von Everec? _The_ von Everec?" he babbled.

"The last one standing."

"Then we have a friend in common."

"Geralt of Rivia," Olgierd guessed.

Dandelion's eyes flashed with renewed enthusiasm.

"I know all about you! Geralt told me _everything_ —your mercenary band, the toad prince in the sewers of Oxenfurt, his being taken prisoner by the Ofieri," he rattled off excitedly. "The deal he was forced into by—"

"Don't utter his name!" Olgierd interrupted warningly.

"Fascinating! Geralt said the same thing. He only referred to him as Master Mirror."

He nodded, uncomfortable with the scrutiny he was under.

"Yes, yes…Geralt tells me all about his many contracts, you see. I have become the _de facto_ chronicler of his adventures. I have to say: what an amazing story!" he marveled. "It has all the elements of an astoundingly good adventure: intrigue, mystery, a touch of the supernatural, and of course, star-crossed lovers. I'm even contemplating writing a play. Obviously, only Priscilla could play the part of the spectral lady in the von Everec manor."

Olgierd's gaze hardened. A sinking feeling assailed him at the mention of Iris.

"Erm, Dandelion: perhaps you ought to, you know, shut the fuck up now. You aren't talking to a sodding actor," Zoltan stated somberly, noting the change in Olgierd's demeanor.

Dandelion looked at them back and forth, flustered.

"Oh. Indeed. Of course. My sincerest apologies. I do regret my gaffe. There was no intent to discomfit anyone," he offered. "It's uncommon that I come face-to-face with the protagonists of Geralt's stories," he apologized.

An awkward silence fell among them all.

"If it is any consolation," Dandelion continued, "Geralt would not tell me much about your late wife. I believe he did so out of respect. Most of what I write about her will be the fruit of my imagination."

"I see," Olgierd stated coolly.

"Anyway, my dear fellow, you wished to meet with our Triss?"

"Yes. Can you direct me to her?"

"I can, I can…But if you'll excuse my impertinence, whatever do wish from her?"

"You claim to be a good friend of Geralt's?" Olgierd wondered.

"We are the best of friends. I have assisted him numerous times in his contracts throughout—"

"More ripe fruits of his imagination…" Zoltan teased as he tapped his head. "I'd seriously reconsider the use of the word 'assistance'."

"Do you know where I can find Geralt?" Olgierd asked. Perhaps he wouldn't need to find this mysterious Triss Merigold after all.

"He is quite retired these days," Dandelion explained, crossing his arms as well in an effort to appear as robust as Olgierd. He was smaller than the imposing Redanian, though.

"Ah," was all he said.

"Oh, very well!" Dandelion exhaled in exasperation. "He resides in Toussaint, if you must know!"

Zoltan shook his head. "Man can hold a secret like bare hands can hold a burning coal."

"Toussaint…"Olgierd pondered the revelation. It was a long trip, but not a terrible one.

"Yes, but he won't be there this time of the year," Dandelion sniffed.

Olgierd furrowed his brow.

"In the late fall he heads back to Kaer Morhen, the Witchers' fortress in Kaedwen, and winters there."

"Where in Kaedwen?" he asked hopefully even as Zoltan tossed his hands up in frustration.

"It's…em…somewhere in Kaedwen."

 _Blasted blazes. This half-arsedness again!_ he scowled. Zoltan remained quiet, observing the two.

"Just tell me where to find Triss Merigold," he suggested, tired from the meandering exchange.

Dandelion brushed his hands over his nightshirt in an attempt to collect his thoughts.

"Ah…Let me see…Where's my quill and parchment…Let me write it down for you…"

He watched him float about the room a bit aimlessly looking beneath tables, behind curtains, and finally pushing Zoltan aside on the settee to browse between the seat cushions. He found an inkwell, sheaf of parchment, and quill sitting on a table in a corner.

"Lovely!" He slipped onto the bench before the table and seized the quill.

Zoltan began to collect a few stray chalices and tankards lying on the ground and on the tables. He waited for Dandelion to scratch something down furiously on the parchment. He contemplated the fruits of his labor with a satisfied look before waving the parchment around to dry off.

"Here," he declared, handing over the torn fragment.

Olgierd blinked slowly.

"In night so dark, the moon so fair/ I seek your semblance everywhere/ None but I the truth do know/you live yonder, in the land of snow/I've asked you thrice, with no success/Will you allow my tender hands to thee undress?" His eyes gazed up from the parchment. "What is this?" he puzzled. Zoltan's fist was trying to conceal the amused grin on his lips.

"Pay attention!" Dandelion scolded him. "I gave you her address, but it's concealed in my verse. I'm no fool: if you are robbed or attacked or anything unfortunate befalls you, I do not want to see my friend inadvertently involved."

"3 Winter Road," Zoltan finally intervened. It's to the northwest of the city, near Saint Gregory's Bridge."

Olgierd looked down at the parchment again in confusion.

"And I would have known that exactly…how?"

"Snow. Thrice. They're clues! It's rather impressive, isn't it? Very discreet—no one will suspect anything. If you forget the address, the poem will spark your memory! And to make everything even better, you now have an original poem by me," he stated smugly.

"It's good for wiping your arse," Zoltan grumbled, settling down his collected wares on a table.

Olgierd nodded slowly.

"3 Winter Road." He tucked the paper hurriedly into his robe pocket and left without another word.

* * *

Dandelion arched his eyebrows as he stared at the empty space where the large man had been standing just moments before.

"Well. He was in a hurry!" he stated in an almost hurt manner.

"Think you did the right thing?" Zoltan chided him.

"What? Triss? She can more than handle him. Besides, I wasn't the one who gave him her address," he concluded cockily.

"What are you talking about?" Zoltan complained.

"I wrote him a riddle: YOU gave him the address."

Zoltan was about to protest, but he fell silent instead.

"And I must say, you certainly were not forthcoming! I don't know where the fortress is exactly, but you do! You have even been there!" Dandelion accused. "Could have saved the man some time."

Zoltan shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

"Make him work for it. I don't know him."

"Geralt staked his soul for him."

"Geralt is an excellent gambler."

"So am I!" Dandelion cried out indignantly.

"Pah—I bet you there is nothing left in the kitchen for breakfast!" Zoltan challenged.

"He really is a striking man, though. Such a…tragic figure. So romantic. I think I will play his part superbly. I'm thinking of naming my play 'Hard as a Rock' but don't know if I am completely sold on it. Did you notice how elegantly dressed he was? Such a well tailored red brocaded coat with gold thread!" Dandelion followed Zoltan towards the kitchen.

"Yes, matches these curtains perfectly," Zoltan provoked, smirking. "He'll blend right in."


	4. The Ties That Bind

**Chapter 4: The Ties that Bind**

"If you're a pretender com sit by my fire  
For we have some flax golden tales to spin  
Come in!"

\- Shel Silverstein

* * *

It was already afternoon when Olgierd reached the long snaking road a weathered wooden placard announced as "Winter." Old tall houses lined both sides of the narrow road. He looked over a doorway.

 _Number 358._

He grunted, annoyed, beginning a long stroll towards the end of the street towards the river bank. What were the chances Triss Merigold would be home at that hour? Knowing the caliber of his luck lately, probably none.

The road ended at a low wall overlooking the Pontar. He glanced at the building to his left: Number 1. The house immediately beside it was number 3.

 _Finally._

He strolled up to the half-timbered house, its latticed windows dark inside and rapped his knuckles briefly against the door. A few children ran up and down the road in front of the house, engaged in a lively game of tag. He waited distractedly for someone to answer the door, watching the children giggle and run, making bold and clever escapes from one of their companions who surged forward, waving his arms madly, raking his hands through the air as he tried to grasp any braid or collar he could. Olgierd smirked. For some reason, the hulking boy brought back memories he hadn't touched in…a long time.

 _No answer._ He looked up at the building trying to discern any light, any other signs of activity to no avail.

He knocked again. It was perfunctory-clearly, no one was home- but he tried, nevertheless. He leaned against the wall and became absorbed in the children's game once more.

The boy chasing the others was big, dark haired.

 _He is probably a hell-raiser_ , he decided.

"Ha! I caught you!" he cried out to a golden haired girl he'd successfully seized by the sleeve of her white blouse.

"No!" she wailed loudly. "I don't want to be the Ghoul!" she whined.

The boy crossed his arms and flashed a cocky smile.

"All right, Ingrid. I will let you go…"

"You will?" she asked, her face crinkling as it broke into a radiant smile. The other children stepped closer.

"Aye! But… only if you give me a kiss…" he offered cheekily.

Olgierd raised an eyebrow. _Scheming little bastard!_

"How dare you!" the girl retorted feistily, stomping her foot and ramming her splayed hand into his face. The boy's hands flew to his nose as he yelped sharply. "You are the worst!" she stated angrily, beginning to walk away from the game.

"I just wanted a kiss! From you! Because you're pretty and I like you!" he complained.

"Well, I don't like you!" she shouted. "In fact, I _hate_ you, Joachim!" The girl stormed away taking all the other girls in the group in her wake. The boys stood around their ailing comrade as if thunderstruck. They all remained in silence while Joachim rubbed his nose.

It came to Olgierd in a flash: Joachim was disconcertingly similar to Vlodimir, he found.

"There are better ways to go about that business, you know," he called out sympathetically. "Learn that lesson now and save yourself a world of grief when you're older."

The boy looked up at him, ill-contained fury in his expression.

"What's it to you, you sodding whoreson!" the boy snapped angrily.

There were many things Olgierd knew at that moment, courtesy of a well-earned experience. He knew, for instance, that he wasn't the true target of the boy's wrath. The lad had just been very publicly humiliated by the target of his affection and Olgierd had merely stepped into the line of fire. Olgierd also knew that the boy was just that: a whelp.

Someone entirely more reasonable would have simply dismissed the insult and minded his business.

Someone else.

Not he.

He stepped away from the wall, adopting a definitively more menacing posture.

"Are you determined to get a good thrashing today? Come here and repeat that to my face—man to man!" he growled.

He had known many little shits like the boy. _Like Vlodimir_. They only grew bolder and more brazen anytime they got away with such behavior. A little respect for fear, however, was the difference between recklessness and plain madness. He was equal measure annoyed and amused as he made to swoop down on the hapless group.

"What is going on here?" A slender figure wearing a hooded shoulder cape emerged around the corner, arms encircling and clinging to a heap of small parcels.

"Help us!" the boys all flocked to her.

"This man has threatened Joachim!" one of the boys cried out pleadingly.

"Call it what you will, at least I own up to my deeds!" Olgierd sneered, bending down to scowl at the boys as they rushed past him to huddle around the approaching woman.

"And what fine deeds! A grown man haranguing children!" the feminine voice chastised him loudly.

The wooden shutters of the house facing them flew open and the stern face of an elderly man peered out into the street.

"What in the devil's name is going on here!" The man cast his watery eyes on Joachim. "Get into this house at once!" The boy let his head droop and he silently slunk away from his friends, past Olgierd, and into the building. "And the rest of you! I will find you tasks to stay busy if you all are idling!" he threatened. The other boys began to scurry—a few disappearing into nearby houses and a couple turning down the side streets.

The woman with the parcels pushed past him and began to fumble for something in front of the doorway he had been waiting next to.

"Do you live here?" he asked in a hushed voice, hopeful.

"Don't you have anywhere else to go?" She faced him crossly, a pair of sharp green eyes peering out at him from a youthful, freckled face.

"I might if you help me," he countered.

"Anything, to make you disappear," she huffed, dropping one of her packages.

"The sooner you help me, the faster I'll be on my way. May I come in so we can talk?"

She halted and contemplated him suspiciously.

"You aren't making a good first or even second impression," she warned him. "No, you may not." She finally managed to find what she had been looking for: a large iron key.

 _Blasted boys._ Riling him up like that, he sulked. That Joachim just reminded him too much of Vlodimir and Vlodimir had always been out of control…

"Please: your friends from The Chameleon assured me you'd be able to assist me," he embellished, reaching down to collect her fallen package.

Her eyes narrowed at him, but before she could reply, they were interrupted.

"Mistress Merigold!" the man across the way resumed crossly.

Her head snapped around, and as it did, her hood dropped, revealing a shock of bright red hair loosely arranged in a messy bun.

"Mistress Merigold, this is a proper, decent neighborhood," the man began ominously. "And we wish to keep it that way! It is enough that you come and go at all hours of the day and night to practice your trade, but it is a whole different—and serious— problem if you bring strangers to the house. Strangers of the _male_ persuasion, no less! I need not remind you of the terms of your tenancy!"

She turned back towards the door to jam the key into the lock and pressed her lips tightly.

"Master Lindlak, I assure you that you have nothing to concern yourself about. Don't worry yourself over this man—" she indicated with a tilt of her head. "Because he is nothing more than—"

It was at that moment that Olgierd, contemplating her red hair, redder even than his, and limpid green eyes, brighter than his own, had an inspired solution to his conundrum.

"Nothing more than her _brother_ , Master Lindlak," Olgierd intruded, with a penitent, reassuring grin and a polite head nod.

Another parcel toppled to the ground. He did not dare contemplate Triss' expression. He focused instead on the nosey landlord across the way.

"Olgierd Merigold," he declared formally, "at your service."

Silence and stupefaction were all he encountered on either side of his. His heart pounded from the rush of his brazenness like it hadn't in a long time. The old man's rheumy eyes scrutinized him carefully for a few seconds. Soon enough, the hard expression relaxed and the impasse was ended with a jovial cackle.

"I should have seen the resemblance!" he cheered. "And the red hair!" he concluded, tapping his own balding head. He let his gaze shift from one to the other. "Ah, I should have known! It is uncanny. Uncanny!" he continued.

"You gobermouch," Triss cursed lightly under her breath.

Olgierd smiled broadly.

"Genovefa!" the man called into the house. "Come! Come see! Mistress Merigold has a brother visiting! Now you need not fret so much over her!"

A petite, plump, red-faced woman emerged beside the old man, wiping her hands on her apron. One look at Olgierd and she clasped her hands, overjoyed.

"Blessed be Lebioda! Will you be staying with us long?" she pried.

"No!" Olgierd quickly offered. "I'll be on my way soon enough. Just a quick stop while I am in the region. I must be off as soon as possible."

He turned to Triss and winked winsomely. She appeared to be somewhat frozen as events unfolded.

"But you will sup with us tonight, won't you?" the woman proposed, crestfallen.

"I wouldn't dream of imposing," he stated cordially.

The elderly couple protested.

"You must. I insist!" the woman declared. "Joachim: one more setting at the table!" she shouted into the house.

"We are most interested in learning more about your brother, Mistress Merigold," the old man stated, taking in his fine attire approvingly.

"So am I." The key clicked in the lock loudly and she kicked it open. At the confusion in her landlords' faces, she retracted her statement somewhat. "Because it has been a while since I have heard of or spoken to him myself," she said, with strained amiability. She thrust all her parcels into Olgierd's arms and watched him with a twinge of spite in her lively eyes as the packages teetered and shuffled. "Come, dear brother," she beckoned him in an overly honeyed tone he understood well as her being greatly displeased with him. "We have much to discuss."


	5. Birds of a Feather

**Chapter 5: Birds of a Feather**

"Rivalry discovers that courtesy overlooks."  
― Baltasar Gracián

* * *

"You have no qualms whatsoever in casting my life into disarray!" Triss accused, once the door was securely shut. Olgierd remained standing in the foyer of the small entrance, his arms full. "Ruthless!" she called out. With a flick of her hand, pinpoints of flame erupted over the wicks of several candles ensconced in candelabras strategically placed throughout the room.

 _Ah. She is an enchantress_ , it dawned upon him. And suddenly all the secrecy made sense. He felt a hint of guilt over disrupting her afternoon with his ruse, but it was short lived.

"I will be gone as soon as you share with me the information I seek from you," he offered somewhat contritely. "I have been searching for you for quite a while—traveled here just to find you," he began.

Her brow furrowed.

"Where are you traveling from?"

He cleared his throat.

"Oxenfurt."

She glared at him incredulously.

"Oxenfurt! Some great perilous journey, indeed!" she scoffed, indicating a small round table facing the hearth.

He laid down the packages and stepped away, contemplating the cozy room: dark shelves lined the walls, an assortment of tomes on them along with various other knickknacks: small boxes, glass phials, dried herbs hanging from ribbon among other ephemera. An elegant scarlet rug he could tell was was Ofieri, from the familiar and elaborate pattern of geometric shapes, covered the hardwood floor.

"It was a most perilous journey," he insisted, sitting on the bench running along the latticed window, leaning into the soft tapestry-covered throw pillows. "I bring you regards from Petia Liman, you see," he stated knowingly.

She opened one of the packages and tugged out a string of bound sachets, the debris of a spicy dust lingering over the table. At the mention of Petia, she rolled her eyes.

"Oh, Petia!"

"He insisted I convey his deep gratitude and regards," Olgierd proceeded with a certain formality. "And he wants you to know Toti is thriving in Kovir."

She placed the sachets down on her lap.

"I have to admit that _is_ welcome news," she stated quietly.

"He directed me to your friends—a dwarf and…" How would he describe the dandy that greeted him? "The other one. The one with the feathered hat and grandiloquent ways."

"Zoltan and Dandelion," she completed dryly.

"They sent me here. They said you could aid me." He reached into his pocket and brought out the folded parchment Dandelion had penned for her to peruse. She took the paper and read it impassively, shaking her head slightly.

"I had asked them to relay messages…Not send people to my doorstep," she sighed tiredly. She reached down for another parcel, pulling a bundle of cheesecloth off a small loaf of bread. "Are you hungry?" she asked, resigned to his presence there.

Olgierd paused to ponder this for a moment. He was still not in the habit of heeding his own needs when hunger or thirst or exhaustion clamored. He had grown numb to his own discomforts, but without the security of immortality, found them more inconvenient…and debilitating. He had not, in fact, had anything to eat or drink since the previous morning, so absorbed was he in his search.

She pushed the bread towards him. She scrutinized him as he tore a hunk from the loaf.

"Some tea?" she asked. His mouth full, he quickly nodded in agreement.

Enchantresses, he thought, were a dangerous breed. During his initial attempts to learn more about his curse, he had enlisted the aid of the occasional sorceress. But he had found them unhelpful overall. Initially curious and inquisitive, they aided him because the lure of a power greater than their own was seductive and nurtured their own searches for supremacy and knowledge. They marveled at him, at his own skills while immortal and bound to nefarious magics. He saw that their interests waned though, once they realized they were outmatched, once they realized they could very well be in peril themselves by association and that there was very little in it for them. They were capricious, vain, arrogant, and selfish. He had learned to avoid them, give them a wide berth. He found in their allure a coldness. They were too calculating. Too beautiful. Too perfect.

The woman sitting across from him, though, did not seem to have that haughty demeanor he had learned to expect from enchantresses. Practically dressed, her hair messily arranged, her face exuded nothing more than a candid freshness. There was a girlishness to her, an unstudied innocence, he found, that he had never perceived among those of her ilk.

To his surprise, he had almost devoured her entire loaf of bread while she went about boiling the kettle of water and sprinkling herbs into two earthenware cups, acutely aware of the churning in his stomach. He received the cup of steaming tea from her hands gratefully.

"I don't know what you seek yet, but I will try my best to aid you," she stated, eyeing him warily. "But I do need you to promise me you will be gone as soon as possible."

"I never intended to do otherwise," he protested, between sips of the steaming gingery brew.

"Indeed, _brother_ ," she scolded him.

He grimaced.

"That was merely an artifice to buy me some time and exonerate you of a dubious reputation."

"It may be time earned for you, but it could spell trouble for me," she told him resentfully. "You have no idea how difficult it is for an enchantress to find a safe and reasonably priced haven in Novigrad right now."

He sipped, the steam tickling his well-manicured moustache.

"With Radovid's demise—"

"I thought that was rather fortuitous. He was hell-bent on eradicating all wizards and enchantresses from Redania."

"Yes," she concurred. "He was. Even in Novigrad, despite its independence, the Council was helpless to stem the tide the Eternal Fire had unleashed. Make no mistake: they were also supported by coin flowing in from Radovid's war chest."

"But he's gone now."

"Yes," Triss agreed, setting down a small pot of jam and a butter knife on the table. "And more moderate voices…in some matters, at least, have prevailed. The Eternal Fire's hold has been greatly weakened in light of Radovid's death. With a new council and no coin to purchase influence, they have been forced to retrench. I and a few others have returned and have found the city far more agreeable and accommodating in some ways…but not in others," she explained. "The climate of uncertainty in this void created by Radovid's death has made many Redanian noble families uneasy and vulnerable. They, in turn, have sought refuge somewhere where the semblance of law and order still prevails. Novigrad has been assailed by wave upon wave of nobles who have been purchasing entire neighborhoods of the city, driving up the prices of land, of rents and even goods. And although the Eternal Fire no longer holds sway with the populace as it once did, old prejudices are hard to efface. I am extremely fortunate the Lindlaks agreed to rent me this house in the midst of all the rampant mistrust and price gouging that is afoot here. So, you see, what you perceive as an amusing prank is really my wellbeing," she chided him.

"Forgive me. It was an ill-conceived solution I came up with out of desperation. I assure you I will conduct myself above reproach and will be on my way as soon as possible."

She nodded.

"Very well. Not much to do now but move forward, is there? So, tell me: what do you seek of me, after braving the perilous voyage from Oxenfurt and surviving the scrutiny of Petia, Zoltan, and Dandelion?" she teased, wiping some jam off the butter knife over a fluffy slice of bread.

"I am looking for a place and I hope you can direct me to it. I am told you know how—"

"What place?" she asked suspiciously.

"In Kaedwen," he risked. Her expression clouded.

"Surely you don't mean to—"

"The Witchers' fortress," he explained. "I must find it before winter arrives."

She held her slice of bread in the air, indecisively.

"Why? What do you want with Witchers?"

He fell silent.

"There is a reason the fortress is somewhere so distant and apart from the rest of the world. They wish to remain undisturbed. I doubt you would be welcomed," she risked.

"I am searching for a particular Witcher," he began once more, in a strained manner. He needed directions, not to explain his motivations.

She peered at him curiously.

"Who are you?" she asked sharply. "You mentioned your name was Olgierd—"

"Von Everec," he completed.

She leaned forward abruptly.

"I know of you," she said in a lower voice, suddenly examining him as if she had lain eyes upon him for the first time. "Long before…Rumors about you have circulated for a long time among certain circles. A pact, was it?" she wondered.

"Yes."

She sat back pensively.

"So unfortunate. Such pacts have only ever led to disaster…since the beginning of time. I do not know if I should be more stunned by these entities' cunning shrewdness in securing such contracts or by the depths of human despair," she stated. "Olgierd von Everec," she stated softly, in slight disbelief. They remained in silence in the drafty room, the fire crackling tenaciously in the small hearth. "You know, Dandelion is in the process of writing a play about you," she revealed coolly.

"So I have heard."

"Does it irk you?" she asked. A reddish sheen reflected off her hair in the firelight.

"No," he replied. "Not in the least."

She arched her eyebrows.

"I have no control over such stories…Nor do I wish to assert any authority and in the process entrap myself in matters I do not wish to be involved in. Like you said, not much to do now but move forward, right?" he stated in an equally dispassionate manner. "People will say what they will and in embellishing the story, it is no longer truth…or even my own…and thus, none of my concern."

"A very rational approach," she concurred.

"Besides, when in Novigrad, I am no longer a von Everec," he declared slyly.

Her brow furrowed again.

"I am a _Merigold_ ," he grinned tartly.

"Let's see that the correct assertion is ' _was_ a Merigold,' since you'll be on your way," she added quickly.

"You must admit, the coincidence is fortuitous." He glanced at her as he ran his fingers through his own reddish hair. "Could we be related? Are the Merigolds perchance of Redanian origin?"

She smirked, scoffing.

"Never," she declared defiantly. "Any sorceress would be very foolish to pledge allegiance to somewhere that would not embrace them, but as a point of clarification, the Merigolds are Temerian."

He hissed softly, as if horrified.

" _On standards and scabbards nobles and soldiers bring_ ," he declaimed the old Temerian battle song, " _wave the white lilies —Long live the_ —"

"King," Triss completed, unimpressed.

"You are essentially Nilfgaardian now, I believe," he taunted.

"I assure you, the epithet 'sorceress' trumps any national claim," she asserted tartly. "And you?" she asked, her eyes skirting past his numerous scars. "Whose gold determined your devoted loyalty?"

"The highest payers', of course!" He relished some repartee, having always excelled in a good heated exchange. An appetizer before the meal…or in many cases, before a duel. The secret of a good battle of wits was not to become discomfited, emotional, or annoyed, he knew. And he had been in a position of advantage in such matters for a very long time. But now, despite the small barbs exchanged, he felt a lingering unease, a simmering irritation at the insinuations contained in her words.

"Ah, yes! Spoken like a good Redanian," she provoked.

"Gold, like certain epithets, also performs magical feats in transposing borders and overcoming differences," he stated cynically.

"Remind me why I should help you, again?" she asked sharply.

He drew in a deep breath.

"Because I need your help," he admitted. "I need to speak to the Witchers about a personal matter—the feasibility of a certain endeavor I wish to undertake."

"Seems to me like they have already helped you enough."

"And you would be right. Absolutely right. I have a debt I could never hope to pay in this lifetime. And yet…I must try. Live trying, in essence," he declared earnestly. "I owe my second chance at life to Geralt of Rivia and I fully intend not to waste it this time around."

He noticed that as he blurted out the Witcher's name, Triss appeared to blanch before his eyes. She remained very still and an air of malaise held her briefly in thrall. She shut her eyes for a moment and he fell silent, observing her carefully.

"I will give you directions," she stated suddenly, opening her eyes and shifting in her chair, as if collecting herself. "And you must heed them carefully, for the way is perilous and the terrain and weather very inclement this time of the year," she began in a tired voice.

* * *

She met him by the door, which she held open, ushering him into the street.

"Thank you," he told her sincerely. "I am ever grateful."

"Good luck in your travels. I hope you find what you seek," she uttered perfunctorily.

He contemplated her pleasant face perceiving a heaviness, a sadness that had not been there earlier. For a moment he was possessed by the desire to linger, to chase his curiosity and discover what weighed so heavily upon her.

"I do too," he retorted, instead. As he stepped out into the street, the windows across flew open again.

"Master Merigold!" he heard. It took a moment for him to realize he was being addressed. The old woman waved from the window. "Where are you going?"

He heard Triss let out a small impatient huff behind him, stepping out into the street as well.

"My brother must take his leave, Mistress Lindlak. He must rejoin his company, or they will depart without him," she hastily explained.

"I thank you profusely for your invitation." He saluted the woman and clicked his heels together with a studied formality. Older folk loved such displays, he knew. A small sign that civilization was not at the verge of collapse, he thought with amusement.

"But we were hoping…"

"I hope you will invite me again next time I am in Novigrad," he assured her warmly. "I will make sure I make the time for it."

"Yes, yes," she concurred weakly, a bit dismayed her dinner plans had been upset. "It is such a shame," she decided. "Will you be back our way soon?"

"Undoubtedly!" he asserted with a broad smile.

"I do hope so," the woman said dourly. "Do not tarry. I worry about your sister," she began. He could sense Triss stiffen behind him. "She works too hard. Wears herself ragged. All alone in the world. This is no life for a young woman," the old lady complained in a doleful manner.

"My sister is a resourceful woman. I would not worry about her." He figured he would attempt to diffuse the situation somewhat in Triss' favor.

"But you should, you should," the woman insisted. "All this running about," she continued. "What from, I wonder…But it must have been a great disappointment and someday it will catch up with you," she warned, addressing Triss directly. "It is not good, this way of living. And I hope you will be there to help her when it does catch up to her, Master Merigold," she concluded, hopefully.

He turned to face her, slight bewilderment in his face, and found her expression guarded, somewhat brooding.

"Ah, yes…Well, my sister knows where to find me should she ever need me."

"Good to know! Good to know!" the woman continued approvingly. "And where should we be able to find you should she ever need you?" she wondered with feigned innocence.

 _Nosey old coot_ , he thought peevishly.

"Well, you may send correspondence to me in care of my company…" he improvised.

"What is it that you do?" the woman prodded brightly. "Are you a soldier?" she asked, taking in his broad shoulders.

"Merchant!" Triss began, suddenly reviving. He glanced back at her, wondering what she was up to.

"I see! I see!"

"He's traveling north with a caravan of merchants all the way from Temeria," Triss continued.

"Yes, with precious cargo…" Olgierd played along. "The roads just aren't safe these days."

"What type of merchandise, if you don't mind my asking?" the woman continued, relentless in her quest for information.

"Ah," he began. "Just simple sundries—" he stated dismissively.

"Don't be modest, Olgierd!" Triss chimed in mischievously. "Mistress Lindlak, my brother is a foremost merchant in fine undergarments: silks, satins. He deals in it all."

The look she cast him was downright audacious. He crossed his burly arms and brushed his tongue inside his cheek, containing his annoyance.

The woman stared at him with ill-concealed surprise.

"A big man like yourself? Why, I thought…All those scars…But…yes…I can see that. Very discerning taste," she decided, glancing at his elegant robe.

"He's recently retired from a life of service to Redania," Triss continued, impishly inspired. "And is now trying to carve his niche in this surprisingly competitive market."

The woman continued to nod.

"Very good, very good. Honest work is honest work."

"Indeed." He cleared his throat. "It's time that I left, though. I should inspect my merchandise."

"Just the merchandise, though—not the models, yes?" Triss sang teasingly, stepping back towards into house. "Have a safe trip, _brother_!"

The old woman's eyes widened with surprise as the door shut behind him forcefully.

 _Devious of her to up the ante_ , he thought, with a hint of admiration. He supposed he deserved it, though, for his initial deception. He bid the old woman a polite but hasty farewell and sauntered down the street towards the city gates.

He had a long voyage ahead of him.


	6. Interruptions

**Chapter 6: Interruptions**

* * *

"The great thing, if one can, is to stop regarding all the unpleasant things as interruptions of one's 'own,' or 'real' life. The truth is of course that what one calls the interruptions are precisely one's real life - the life God is sending one day by day."  
― C.S. Lewis

* * *

Kaedwen was not too distant, but it might as well have been. The landscape was wild, he noted, as he traveled towards the Blue Mountains, where Triss Merigold had assured him the formidable fortress stood. He found himself shivering often, his breath a billowing cloud of smoke.

 _This is unusual_ , he thought, mystified by the cold stinging his skin, making him want to curl into himself in the mornings. _It isn't nearly this cold in Redania yet_.

He had been indifferent for so long to whatever the weather was doing, unless it impacted his tactics. Now, he was subject to its whims. There was no making camp along the route. Not only was the terrain inhospitable and the weather inclement, he'd been warned about ongoing conflict between humans and the Scoia'tael. He managed to overnight in small villages along the road: inns, rooms in cottages, and even the occasional barn. In less than a day, he would be in Ard Carraigh. He had hoped that the Kaedwani capital would at least offer him a few more comforts and less staring at his clothes than the rest of the gruff, unfriendly country. Nevertheless, he'd been fortunate during his travels: he had not encountered any highway men, and other than an unruly band of wild dogs that tried to overwhelm him at a pass, he had not run into any monsters or wild animals. He took that with a mix of relief and disappointment. It occurred to him that after his visit to the Witchers, if his plan succeeded, he would be intentionally "seeking trouble", as his First back in Redania had often liked to say.

During his course of his voyage, he prepared himself by amassing all his informal knowledge of Witchers. He knew, of course, about The Path. It was, perhaps, one of the few things people simply knew about Witchers. It was part of how they were bid farewell: "Good luck on The Path." He had always heard of their legendary battle prowess—reflexes that were humanly impossible, senses that were uncannily attuned, and a healing capacity to match their boldness and strength. He even had been bested by Geralt—a contest he'd won only because he'd been under the throes of the dark magics of his curse.

He glanced at the sword he'd purchased: a fine blade he'd paid a small fortune for. It could never compare to his old sword, he knew, but it was excellent. Light, long, and slightly curved, the blade was also very sharp. He'd tested it on the wild dogs, finding that his own fighting abilities, despite being somewhat out of practice, were still good.

 _My prowess on the battle field wasn't all due to magic_ , he thought sullenly, guiding his horse down a winding path lined with prickly brambles and an unrelenting wind that whipped noisily past his ears. He ordinarily had not relied on magic when he fought, even though he knew that his predicament rendered him invincible. When Geralt had managed to defeat him in combat, it had been the most exciting thing to happen to him in…well, a long time.

Witchers disposed of magic. He had noticed Geralt casting spells that caused the air to erupt into flames or to reverberate with violent bursts. He could charge the ground with a binding spell that held those who stood inside a circle captive.

As he approached the capital, snow fell softly over him, dusting his cloak and gloves with large flakes. The farther he traveled north, the colder the air became and the heavier the snow. That had not been a pleasant realization. Triss had warned him that once winter arrived in earnest, the paths to Kaer Morhen would be impassible. He did not know what he would do if he could not reach the fortress before that. He didn't know what he would do with himself, _period_. What would he do if the Witchers turned him away? He didn't ponder that for too long, either. He began a slow descent down a steep incline toward another path leading to what appeared to be a large, sprawling city further ahead.

 _Ard Carraigh_ , he realized with relief. And in the city, a good tavern, drink, a hot meal, and a warm bed.

His mind flit over different thoughts about Witchers, his foray into Kaedwen, imagining what the fortress would be like, what he would say, how he would face Geralt and issue his proposal. He did find his mind stilling somewhat as his thoughts drifted back to a certain pair of bright green eyes and a charming freckled face.

"Merchant of undergarments," he scoffed, shaking his head in amused indignation. "How the mighty have fallen," he muttered. Not incidentally, such thoughts were the only ones that succeeded in making him grin.

* * *

Lambert sat on the edge of the bed rubbing his face sleepily. He didn't need to look outside to know that snow was accumulating. The stinging cold air of the old bedroom didn't bother him as much. He was used to the drafty rooms at Kaer Morhen. The fire in the small hearth was almost out, though. He stood up and tossed a couple logs into the fire, casting igni to help it along. He yawned and smacked his lips, his mouth dry. He'd stayed up too late the night before. And he'd had too much ale. A small pitcher of fresh water sat on the table beneath the window and he poured himself a small cup. He'd gotten good and soused the previous night…but he'd needed it. He'd needed it if only to confirm, in an odd celebration, filled with relief, that they had all made it through yet another year. Despite everything that had happened…

"Where did you go?" a sleepy voice called out to him softly, shifting beneath the heaps of blankets.

He turned his head sideways, catching a tuft of blonde hair poking out from beneath the covers.

"I didn't mean to wake you up," he stated apologetically.

"Mm," the voice grumbled, dragging her pillow down further into her burrow of blankets. "It's so cold this morning," she complained.

"Fire almost went out. But it'll warm up in here again in a bit."

He faced his bed, peering into Keira Metz's blue eyes. She blinked at him slowly.

"In a bit?" she asked, hammily faking distress. The corner of his lips turned up into a faint grin. "That's too long to wait." She sat up slightly, peering about, squinting. "And why are you up so early?"

"Thirsty," he confessed.

"But you are all dressed already!" she protested.

"I thought I'd get started clearing the snow off the roof in the northern wing. I'm quite sure it won't survive another winter if we don't clear it periodically."

"But I'm cold _now_!" she insisted.

"You're a sorceress! Warm yourself up! Wiggle your fingers, cast a spell! Do whatever it is you do," he scolded her grouchily.

She sniffed and shook her head.

"For all your acute senses, you really are quite obtuse at times," she accused him. "I am hinting, very obviously, that I want you come over here to warm me up." She raised the blanket slightly in an inviting gesture. In the faint glow of the fire, he could see her enticing naked body, her nipples puckering in the cold air. He flicked his tongue over his lips and quickly placed his cup of water down.

"If I must," he sighed, feigning resignation, pulling off his tunic and quickly unlacing his trousers.

The bed was deliciously warm and Keira was even more delicious and warm as he gathered her into his arms. He was filled, for a brief moment, with a feeling of gratitude and tender affection for the sorceress. He'd feared she wouldn't have wanted to brave another dismal winter in Kaer Morhen: not when she didn't have to go into hiding anymore. Instead, she had surprised him by choosing to return with him, as if it were obvious, a given. And he was thankful for it, for her company, for her soft skin against his, and her breath against his cheek. She could be difficult, capricious and impulsive, but in her arms he found a solace he hadn't even realized for so long he had been missing.

"Much better," she uttered with satisfaction.

"No wonder you are cold—you are very impractically dressed," he teased.

"Ha! Wrong you are: I am not dressed at all! Besides, you know skin-to-skin is the best way to get warm."

He kissed her full lips, finding them yielding and inviting. She was up to no good that morning, he smiled.

"Better?" he asked.

She inhaled pensively but then he felt her hand brushing over his thigh, taking him and gently stroking him between his legs. He hissed, taken in by the jolt of pleasure.

"What's this all about?" he wondered.

"Didn't you tell me to wiggle my fingers to warm up the room? It's about to get hot now," she teased, gripping him more firmly.

He kissed her again, a rush of lusty desire possessing him, his hands cupping her bottom and squeezing.

"I love how wildly impractical you are." He nuzzled her ear.

She laughed lightly before sighing with pleasure as his hand roved over her body, slowly slipping between her thighs.

Just then a loud knock reverberated throughout the fortress.

Lambert sat up, alarmed.

"What was that?"

"Not your problem?" she suggested hopefully.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, reaching for his discarded trousers.

"I can't imagine who would be knocking at the front gate at this time of the day…Or even this time of the year!" He pulled up his pants and fished out his tunic from the foot of the bed. He grabbed his steel sword, just in case.

"What are you doing?" She peered at the sword ensconced in his hand.

"It's precaution."

"Then I should go, too!" She flung the covers off and he watched wistfully as she emerged from the bed where they had been having such a pleasant morning just moments before and conjured a dress over her slender but shapely figure. He glared at the doorway.

 _Whoever it is better have a hell of a good reason to interrupt my morning._

"Let's go," Keira called to him.

That was another thing he found exasperating but also secretly endearing: she acted as if he wasn't capable of dispatching the most vile creatures and monsters on his own. He still hadn't gotten used to the idea of someone acting so protectively toward him. It was rather new and strange, but he understood that somewhere in there was the fear that she would lose him. And he liked that. He enjoyed that feeling of being needed…and beloved. Besides, he recognized that if it hadn't been for her, the Wild Hunt would have finished him…No doubt about it.

"Fine, but let me open the door."

Kaer Morhen's hallways were desolate and gloomy, but he navigated them with comfortable familiarity. He and Keira crossed the great entrance hall, their footsteps echoing throughout the large domed room. Another heavy knock reverberated throughout the fortress. He wondered if Eskel, Geralt, or even Vesemir were on their way down, as well.

The main gate outside had been shut, but the small access door on the gate itself had been left unlocked. It was easier for them to enter and exit the fortress that way…Besides, who would it really deter? Someone determined to get in would be able to come into the courtyard by scaling the crumbling walls.

 _Someone determined to get in…and someone with a death wish_ , he thought darkly, reaching for the main door's pull ring.

"Who comes?" Lambert barked, holding his gloved hand still. Keira peered at the door with grave concern.

"My name is Olgierd von Everec," a deep voice announced. "I have come all the way from Redania."

"Took a wrong turn somewhere?' Lambert provoked. "You're a long way from home. What do you want?"

"I am searching for Geralt of Rivia."

He caught Keira rolling her eyes.

"Or the other Witchers."

"If you are selling anything, we aren't interested!" Keira intervened.

"I'm not," the voice retorted, mildly peeved. "Look, could I come in? I just climbed this mountain in the middle of a blizzard."

"A little entitled, aren't we?" Keira continued. "No one asked you to engage in such foolishness."

"You still haven't explained what it is that you seek."

"It's a personal matter I would like to discuss with the Witchers."

"We're listening!" Keira quipped. Lambert pursed his lips in disapproval at her.

"If it's a contract, it'll have to wait until spring." Lambert watched the door expectantly for the next comment or retort.

"Not a contract. I came here for a different reason."

"And that would be?"

The voice outside the door grew silent. For a moment, Lambert thought it had given up, perhaps begun to trudge down the mountain before the worst of the snow hit.

"I would like to become a Witcher."

Lambert laughed. He didn't know what bemused him more: the fact someone would willingly subject themselves to that life or that he thought it was that simple.

"And I would like to be the Emperor of Zerikkania. Life is full of disappointment. Be careful with the cross currents on your way down." Lambert moved away from the door, encircling Keira's waist and tugging her along with him.

 _We can still salvage this morning._

"Please," the voice called out. "Just give me a moment. Or let me at least talk to Geralt. He knows me well."

He turned toward the door, pondering his options. If that was Geralt's problem, then he could deal with it.

"All right. Wait there. I'll go get him."

He didn't mind interrupting the older Witcher's morning. Even if Yennefer would begrudge him for it. After all, if his delightful morning had been interrupted, so should the White Wolf's.


End file.
